Drew nodded.
'Good.' He looked out of the window. 'We've only got a few hours of daylight left. Latifa Ahmed's being delivered to us in the morning, so let's get the motion sensors set up. Everything else we can do after nightfall.'
Drew and Kennedy nodded and without another word they went to work.
The UK has been placed on its highest level of terrorism alert. The government's decision to raise the threat level to 'critical' reflects concern that a terror attack is imminent over the Christmas period. Shoppers are being warned by police to be extra vigilant and to report any suspicious packages or individuals…
The television was on, as it always was. He sat in front of it, his back perfectly straight, a white vest covering the dark skin and well-defined muscles of his torso.
He seldom ventured outside; the risk was too high. He needed to keep a low profile. They would be looking for him and he was determined that they wouldn't find him through his own negligence.
During the day he kept the sound down on the television. He had no interest in the foolish banalities aimed at Western housewives with nothing better to do with their time. Really it was just to remind himself that there was a world outside this basement where he spent so many hours. But come evening and the news bulletins, he would listen carefully. He was listening carefully now. Listening and doing all he could to keep his breathing steady, despite what he heard.
An Afghan woman has been arrested following anti-terror raids in London. The woman, 35-year-old Latifa Ahmed, was arrested late last night on suspicion of the commission, preparation and instigation of acts of terrorism. She is currently in custody at an undisclosed location.
He stared at the television.
He blinked, slowly.
He looked at the grainy picture of his sister that filled the screen momentarily, before the news-reader moved on to another story.
And then Faisal Ahmed's lips thinned.
Latifa. In this country. Under arrest. For a moment he could not help feeling a sense of grudging respect for his enemy. This was clever. A way to flush him out. A lie, of course, but an elegant one. A chess move worthy of a grandmaster.
It was clear, of course, that the news bulletin was there for his own benefit. No doubt it would be repeated on every channel for the rest of the day. If he bought a newspaper tomorrow morning — which he seldom did — Latifa's face would be staring out of it. In this strange world of the West, where politicians send messages to their people over the airwaves, this was like a clarion call in a coded language. A language that only he could understand.
We have your sister, Faisal Ahmed, it said. And you know what will happen to her if you do not do as we say.
He felt a surge of love for Latifa. She alone knew the whereabouts of his hiding places. She alone in all the world could lead them to him. And yet she had not, just as he had trusted. But what horrors would they have inflicted on her to make her talk? A sudden, rampant hate burned inside him. This was not Latifa's war. She had done nothing to deserve it. How dare they? How dare they?
He took a deep breath. He had to remain calm if he was to do anything to help her. There would be further messages, of that he was sure. He just had to wait.
All night he sat in front of the television, without eating or sleeping. All night and all the following morning. The news didn't change; just the bare facts — if that's what you wanted to call them — of Latifa's arrest.
Only as the morning wore on was there something new.
Footage. A police van driving up to a large house. A woman being let out of the back. Her head was covered and she seemed to be having difficulty walking.
Faisal Ahmed suppressed a moment of blind rage. What had they done to her? What in the name of God had they done to her? They would pay. As Allah was his witness, they would pay for this!
He scrutinised the pictures closely. The camera followed Latifa as she was escorted to the front steps, then panned back — almost artistically in a way that would never happen for an ordinary news report — to show the place where she was being held.
He recognised it, of course. He recognised it just as they so obviously intended him to.
Here she is, they were saying. Here she is, if you think you have the skill and the courage to rescue her.
They knew he was planning something. They knew he would not just disappear into the night; not after what they had done. They knew he wanted revenge and they knew it would be bloody. Now they had played their best hand.
The news reporter spoke over the images.
Terror suspect Latifa Ahmed is being held under a control order while officers from Scotland Yard's anti-terror teams question her further.
The words decoded themselves in his brain even as he heard them: Your sister is here. We have her. The only way you can save her is by coming to get her yourself.
Instantly, Faisal Ahmed's brain started working overtime. Tactics. Scenarios. Latifa would be well guarded. Not so well guarded as to put him off a rescue attempt. But well guarded nevertheless.
They would have done their homework.
They would be waiting for him.
They would be sure that there was no way they could fail.
But there was a way. There had to be a way.
Faisal Ahmed's eyes narrowed. He kept perfectly calm as he considered his next move.
There was always a way.
The SAS team were waiting in the hallway of the house when Latifa arrived. She was walking — hobbling, really — and her hands were cuffed behind her back. A military cameraman was taking video footage of the outside of the house — obviously no real press were being allowed near — and Latifa was being accompanied by two grim-faced Met officers. The police officers handed her over, nodded a cursory greeting at Will as they gave him the keys to her handcuffs, then turned and left. Moments later the black prison van had gone, and there was nobody on the grounds other than Latifa and the three SAS men.
'Your feet are getting better,' Will observed.
Latifa didn't answer. She refused even to catch his eye.
'Can you walk up the stairs?'
She glanced in the direction of the staircase, then started walking towards it with obvious difficulty. Drew offered his arm, but she shrugged him off impatiently, so the three men simply watched helpless as, her hands still cuffed behind her back, she climbed the stairs. It took an age and was almost painful to watch.
They followed her upstairs and ushered her into the room they had prepared.
Latifa stopped at the door and looked around. 'This is to be my new prison?' she asked.
'We've tried to make it as comfortable as we could,' Will replied, gruffly, aware that he sounded ridiculous. The room looked more like a military control centre than anything else. At each of the huge windows were two tripods, one holding a set of ordinary binoculars, the other with a set of nightvision binoculars for after sunset. Leaning against one wall was a line of Heckler & Koch UMPs as well as three MP5s. The UMPs were chambered for larger cartridges with more effective stopping power; the MP5s had a longer range. Horses for courses. There were neat little piles of ammunition stacked up, as well as an array of gas masks and halogen torches. In the middle of the room was a table, on which sat a black box. A length of flex trailed from it across the floor and through a small, newly bored hole in one of the outside walls. A second length led from the box and out through another hole in the wall by the door. There was a laptop connected to a mobile phone and in one corner there was a small television set.